I sat atop the roof so high,
And sang my mournful lullaby.

Years went and the tears went
Pouring down my face. A crier
At heart, emotions run my game,
Though I was never taught how to play.

When the going gets tough,
Pull yourself up by the bootstraps,
Making sure not to hang yourself
In the process of “equality for all”.

There’s nothing equal about love, and
There’s nothing fair about emotional reactions.
Both happen spontaneously, subconsciously,
And
Suddenly
You’re living a life you never imagined.

I’m tired of singing this sad soliloquy.
It’s time to leave the roost.

I pen this powerful piece of prominent prominence in praise of my passion
I power these powerful words
To empower your purpose
Your presence, presents
And presentations presented to us a privilege to profit from your priceless
And precious prizes

Weak people prefer power
But powerful people prefer to empower weak people
I am pleased and proud
And promise to provide partnership to your projects

Precisely, I picked and puzzled these powerful words
So particular people can see and pluck from this precious plant
The plain plan of the poem is to paint pretty pictures in pixel

This piece is not a prequel
Though I see the “pre” in the “quel”, I’m trying to recall
The purpose of this prequel
Only for my parents to tell me Patrick, Pause and play this piece in a sequel.

in this stressful society we have,
so much slanders,
                              sins,
                                     scandals
                                                     have been scrutinized over
and over
              again
for the satisfaction of sardonic,
                      scornful,
      "sacred"
­disparagers.

      nothing shocks me more
           than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others
  based on the dehumanizing standards
                                                       ­            of mankind.

shackled
              by the scalding hands of screeching vermins,
why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred--
                                  stuttering,
     ­                                                shuddering,
              screaming
for help
because simple succors are never,
                                       have never been,
                                         will never be
                                                                  enough?

why
       do we keep letting ourselves be singled out
as stigmas
        when "failing" society's endless scans for
superficial perfection?

*(how sickening.)

i think a part of me will
always love being six years old—
love being tiny, unassuming, cold
in my reactions, bowled
over by my peers, told
to be bigger, brighter, better.

i am largely the same now—
but i am no longer six.

no one tells me to
become any bigger
or brighter or better,
being small means being
crushed, and if i am
overlooked, no one cares.

if i were six, this
would sadden me.
but i am no longer six,
i no longer care,
and i am alone in my
acquired apathy.

I don't know what to write,
because my mind is white.
A walk would be in order,
to get thoughts out of disorder.
As I'm trekking through the forest,
I get an idea! A florist
who goes to Vegas
and...encounters writer's block.